The Eyewitness (2 page)

The Commission had been notified, but all Solomon had been able to do was compile information on the missing people. No one knew for sure how many had vanished from the farm, but after speaking to the neighbours Solomon had twenty-one names -men, women and children, old and young, all related, all Kosovar Albanian Muslims in an area populated by Serbs. No one had seen or heard anything. They might have been telling the truth, but Solomon knew that even if they had seen something, they wouldn't have told him. Right across the former Yugoslavia innocent civilians had been maimed and murdered, some in their own homes, others taken away at gunpoint, and no one had seen a thing. Houses had been looted and burned, cars stripped and set on fire, and those left unharmed those who had been of the right race or religion had turned their backs.

“They've turned up, near the border with Serbia,” said Miller.

“Alive?” asked Solomon. As soon as the question left his mouth, he realised how stupid it was.

“Get a grip, Jack,” said Miller.

“If they were alive, why would I be calling you? KFOR have found a truck in a lake about fifty kilometres from Pristina, close to the border with Serbia.” KFOR was the Kosovo Force, the multinational grouping of foreign armies that were in the country to ensure that the various factions lived together in relative harmony. A similar group, Stabilisation Force or SFOR, was based in Bosnia.

“Do you want me there?”

“Tim is up to his eyes in Belgrade. They're opening up two mass graves this week and he has to be there to co-ordinate. Can you go first thing? Take Kimete with you.” Kimete was one of the Commission's interpreters.

“Sure. I'll swing by the office first thing and pick up the file.” Solomon screeched to a halt inches from the truck. He cursed profusely, then apologised to Miller and cut the connection.

He got caught in early-evening traffic when he reached Sarajevo, and it was almost six o'clock when he parked in front of his apartment block, one of the first to be repaired after the four-year siege had ended. It was a modern brick block on Alipasina Street, home to many of the city's top politicians and businessmen. Barely had the fighting stopped than builders had moved in to renovate and repair it. Solomon's apartment had originally been owned by a Serbian businessman who ran a string of garages on the outskirts of the city. The Serb, along with many others, had left the week before the siege started, forewarned by relatives in the Serbian military. He had never returned and after the siege had sold the apartment to a Muslim landlord, who now owned several dozen up market homes that he let to internationals.

Solomon walked up to the third floor and let himself in. He took a can of Heineken out of the fridge and walked on to the large balcony. There he lit a Marlboro and looked out over the huge Catholic graveyard that faced the apartment block on the other side of the road. The sun was going down and a cool breeze ruffled his hair. There were really only two seasons in Bosnia, summer and winter the transitions between too short to be considered seasons. Three days earlier it would have been too cold to stand on the balcony without a thick coat and gloves, yet already the city-centre cafe tables were full of students in summer clothes and sunglasses, smoking and drinking coffee as they discussed ways to study or work overseas.

With the end of winter came the start of the exhumation season. The graves had been identified and marked, but it was only with the thaw that the digging could start. A few more days and more body-bags would have been filled and the photographers would be working overtime to capture clothing and personal effects on film.

Kimete was in Solomon's office waiting for him, drinking coffee. She raised her paper cup in salute and asked if he wanted some. Solomon said no, he'd already had a Bosnian breakfast coffee and cigarettes at home. Kimete was tiny, barely over five feet tall, but she seemed taller because she always wore boots with high heels and thick soles. She was in her early thirties but looked a good ten years younger than that, with her shoulder-length curly black hair and boyish figure. Her English was close to fluent, and when she translated from Bosnian she could convey the inferences and subtleties of what was being said. She also spoke Serbo-Croatian, Albanian and Russian, and Solomon had seen her flirt so effectively with an Italian army captain in his own language that the man had run after her in the street begging for her phone number. Before the war she'd been a teacher, but when there had been no money to pay her salary she'd become a translator, working first for the police and then the Commission. She knew when to ask questions of her own, and when to stick rigidly to what the co-ordinator was asking.

Solomon briefed her as he took out the file on the Pristina case. Then they went down to his car and drove out of the city towards Serbia. She lit a Marlboro with an SFOR Zippo and handed it to him, then lit one for herself. Most Bosnians smoked: cigarettes were cheap and plentiful, and during four years of almost constant shelling and sniper fire by the Serbian army they had been one of the few pleasures available to the population. Until she had started to work for the Commission, she'd smoked one of the foul-smelling local brands and Solomon had introduced her to the milder Marlboro Lights that he favoured. He'd realised recently, though, that she only smoked them when she was with him. Otherwise she smoked her old brand.

“So they've been in water for three years?” asked Kimete. She grimaced.

“That's what Chuck says,” said Solomon.

Six black SFOR helicopters clattered overhead in the direction of the border with Serbia. Kimete glanced up at them.

“That's the way to get around,” she said.

“Stop complaining,” said Solomon, and laughed.

“It's not as if you've got to drive.”

It took just over four hours to reach the lake, which was well away from any major roads. There were no signposts and they had to rely on a map that Kimete had open on her lap.

They knew they were on the right road when they saw two Humvee armoured cars and a group of American soldiers with automatic weapons. One held up his hand and Solomon brought the four-wheel-drive to a halt. He flashed his Commission credentials. A young American soldier in full battle dress nodded, then insisted that Kimete also showed her ID. Solomon explained they were there to see the remains taken from the lake. The soldier told him to wait, then went over to one of the Humvees and used a radio. He came back to Solomon's vehicle and gave him directions to a nearby farm.

Solomon wove past the Humvees and followed the directions. The farm was at the end of a half-mile-long rutted track at the bottom of a heavily wooded hill. Stone buildings formed a U-shape around a cobbled courtyard, in which three grey US Army Humvees were lined up, along with several blue police vans and two US Army Jeeps in camouflage livery. Half a dozen US troopers stood in a circle, smoking and talking. They glanced at the Nissan Patrol's diplomatic plates and carried on their conversation.

To the right of a stone farmhouse was a large corrugated-iron barn. Two soldiers were standing at the entrance.

Solomon and Kimete walked up to them and showed their IDs. One called into the barn, and a lieutenant in a dark blue flak-jacket came out and shook their hands. He spoke with a deep south drawl and the fingers of his right hand were stained with nicotine. Solomon offered him a Marlboro, then handed the packet to Kimete. The lieutenant took them inside the barn and Solomon lit their cigarettes. They gazed at a large refrigerator truck, covered in thick brown slime, its rear doors unlocked but almost closed.

“How was it discovered?” asked Solomon.

“UN helicopter flying low over the lake last week,” said the lieutenant.

“The co-pilot called in that he'd seen something in the water but we were only able to get to it yesterday. We used a Chinook to pull it out. Hell of a job.”

Solomon nodded at the rear doors.

“You opened it, yeah?”

The lieutenant nodded and took a long draw on his cigarette.

“Cut the padlock and opened it by the lake, then had it moved it here.” He shuddered.

“What about the driver?”

“The cab was empty.”

“Do you have body-bags?” asked Solomon.

“They're on their way from Belgrade. Should be here this afternoon.”

“How many bodies are in the truck?”

“I made it twenty-six. Some are just babies.” Kimete took a step towards the truck. The lieutenant laid a hand on her arm.

“I wouldn't, miss. It's not very pretty.”

She flashed him a tight smile.

“I was in Sarajevo right through the siege, Lieutenant. I helped bury my brother and two cousins. And I've seen hundreds of remains since the war ended.”

The lieutenant nodded.

“Okay. But these aren't remains. They're bodies.”

Solomon frowned.

“If it's the family I think it is, that truck has been in the water for three years.”

“That's right, but the rear of the truck was airtight. No water got in. And the water was cold, not much above freezing. They're preserved. It's like it happened yesterday.”

“You've examined them, right?”

The lieutenant shook his head.

“Not my prerogative,” he said.

“We notified the police and moved it here.”

“I was told it was a missing family from Pristina.”

“That's what the cops think. They had a look through some of the personal effects.” The lieutenant sensed Solomon's unease.

“They were in the back for ten minutes, no more.” He said.

“Since then, no one else has been inside.”

Somebody shouted at them from the back of the barn in guttural Serbo-Croatian. A Kosovar police captain walked over to them, his beer-drinker's paunch riding up over a thick leather belt. He carried a large automatic in a scuffed leather holster. Kimete explained in Bosnian who they were, the policeman asked to see their IDs, and Solomon and Kimete flashed their credentials again.

“I don't see why the International War-dead Commission is involved in this,” said the policeman, scratching his ear. Kimete translated.

“They appear to be victims of ethnic cleansing,” said Solomon, then paused to allow Kimete to translate.

“We have to be present at the exhumation, and if there is evidence of a war crime, we notify the War Crimes Tribunal. Until we have assessed the scene, it has to be secured by KFOR.”

The policeman brushed away Kimete's translation with a impatient wave of his hand.

“This is a crime scene. A police matter.”

“If it's the family we think it is, they are Kosovar Albanian Muslims who were abducted from their farm outside Pristina.”

The police captain shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together. He jerked a thumb at the truck.

“It might have been an accident. Until we have examined the vehicle we cannot be sure.”

Kimete translated what he had said.

“I think his nose is out of joint,” she said.

“They were getting heavy,” said the lieutenant.

“My men had to draw their weapons before they'd leave the truck. We were concerned about looting.”

“You did the right thing,” said Solomon. He turned to Kimete.

“Remind him of the rules regarding exhumation,” he said, then waited while Kimete explained that KFOR had jurisdiction, and that the lieutenant had been within his rights to exclude the local police from the preliminary investigation.

The policeman listened in silence, staring at Solomon with hard eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but Solomon forestalled him.

“Tell him that we are grateful for the speed with which he identified the family,” said Solomon, 'and ask him if he'd accompany me into the back of the truck."

Kimete translated, and the policeman nodded, his lips pressed so tightly together that they had virtually disappeared.

The American lieutenant dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and ground it with his heel. He called over to his men and they pulled open the rear doors of the truck. Solomon extinguished his cigarette, then the lieutenant helped him climb up and handed him a chunky army torch. Solomon held out a hand to haul the policeman up. Kimete pulled herself up with feline grace before the lieutenant could offer to help her.

Solomon turned on the torch and played the beam around the inside of the truck. The first thing he saw was an old man and an old woman, lying on the floor, embracing like young lovers. Their eyes were wide and staring, their mouths open.

“My God,” whispered Solomon.

“It's hard to believe this happened three years ago,” said Kimete.

The policeman switched on his torch and shone it at a middle-aged man by the door. He was lying face down, and Solomon saw that his hands were black with dried blood, the nails ripped off. The policeman spoke to Kimete.

“This is the man he got the identification from,” explained Kimete.

“Agim Shala.”

Solomon knelt down and examined the man's injured hands. There were two bloody fingernails on the metal floor of the truck. Solomon pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and picked one up.

The policeman spoke again in rapid Bosnian.

“He was trying to claw his way out,” Kimete explained.

“Several of the men have similar injuries.”

Solomon straightened up and walked further into the truck, passing his torch over the bodies, counting. There were several men in their twenties and thirties close to the door; the women were at the back with the children. He saw two young girls, barely into their teens, hugging each other. A small boy of seven or eight was curled into a foetal ball, his eyes closed as if he'd just fallen asleep.

At the end of the truck, pressed against the metal wall, lay a young couple, their arms around a little girl. Her eyes were closed and she was holding a small teddy bear. She couldn't have been more than eighteen months and looked as if she were fast asleep. The teddy bear had been worn smooth by years of cuddling, probably handed down from generation to generation. One glass eye was missing and a replacement had been darned in with brown thread. Solomon felt a hand touch his shoulder and he looked up at Kimete.